


The Best Thing

by spookywoods



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, Hogwarts Professors, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Potions Master Draco Malfoy, Praise Kink, Professor Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 20:44:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16002962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookywoods/pseuds/spookywoods
Summary: He starts to notice it: the way Malfoy reacts to his words, to his compliments and praise, the things Harry offers up and vocalises without even thinking. The things he says because he’d decided that night on the Astronomy Tower that he’d wanted Malfoy to know his worth; to feel good.





	The Best Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [restlessandordinary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/restlessandordinary/gifts).



> Filling the prompt "Drarry and praise" for the amazing [restlessandordinary](restlessandordinary)
> 
>  
> 
> Many thanks to [cubedcoffeecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cubedcoffeecake/pseuds/cubedcoffeecake) for the beta.

The first time it happens, he’s too overcome in the moment to really notice Malfoy’s reaction to his words. It’s his second year teaching DADA, Malfoy’s first teaching Potions, and they find themselves on top of the Astronomy tower—tackling their past, and adjusting to their present. 

Harry finds direction when he goes up there. It gives him perspective, soothes his fears when he starts questioning his choice to quit Auror training. His nightly sojourns up to Tower help him settle into life back at Hogwarts, settle into something comfortable.

But Malfoy’s only been Potions Master for three months, and Harry recognises that his dark circles and his weight loss aren’t from long nights adjusting to grading and lesson planning. He remembers seeing those things in his own mirror. 

“The ghosts of this place will haunt you, if you let them,” he says. Malfoy’s eyes shine back at him from across the tower, the dim moonlight casting shadows across the planes of his face. 

“And insult you,” he offers, half a smile on his lips. 

“We’re more than what we did here,” Harry shakes his head. He takes a few cautious steps forward, bridging the gap between them. Looking out across the grounds, he says, “I don’t want to be known for all that. I only did what I had to do.” Harry looks down at his feet. “So did you.” 

The silence settles between them, and Harry feels as if a weight has been lifted. He thinks there could be something between them—a friendship, a bond. And he realises he wants to make Malfoy feel better, feel good, feel anything but the dark and haunting things he has been. 

“You’ve accomplished so much in such a short amount of time,” Harry finally says, breaking their shared reticence. 

Shaking his head, Malfoy sighs. “I was only one of thirty who worked on the lycanthropy preventative elixir.” 

Harry smiles. “That may be true. But I was told you were the one who made it taste like peppermint?” Malfoy laughs, and suddenly what once seemed impossible feels like the easiest thing in the world. Harry grins in return, “If you could pass on that flavoring technique to Pomfrey—” 

“I wouldn’t dare. She’d have me for breakfast.”

“Alright, alright,” Harry concedes, still smiling. “You’ve got time to work on her, I think.”

“Yeah?” 

Harry nods. “Yeah.” 

After that, Malfoy settles in. He grows into a respected professor and acclaimed potions master. He and Harry have something between them, something more than colleagues and different than friendship. Harry finds himself comparing it to his and Neville’s relationship, friends who commiserate over students, attend the Quidditch games, discuss politics, share the occasional lewd joke—all with the smiles and fondness that come with familiarity and trust. 

But with Malfoy, Harry feels the weight of things unsaid hanging in the air around them. He pushes away his longing, his urge to grab Malfoy and tell him all things that make him so amazing. Instead, Harry enjoys his company, revels in his charm and the wit of his tongue. He likes to tease him with sarcasm, throw him off balance, only to have Malfoy offer a scathing response. 

“You’re so clever sometimes, Malfoy,” Harry says on one occasion. “You could write a book of insults.” Harry smiles when the tips of Malfoy's ears turn red. 

But sometimes he daydreams about the curve of Malfoy’s throat, the balance of his shoulders, the long, bony grace of his fingers as they wandlessly stir something simmering in a cauldron. When he realises his train of thought, Harry shakes his head, gets back to whatever he was doing, chastises himself for thinking of Malfoy like that. They’d built something special between them, hadn’t they? He doesn’t want to ruin that.

Then he starts to notice it: the way Malfoy reacts to his words, to his compliments and praise, the things Harry offers up and vocalises without even thinking. The things he says because he’d decided that night on the Astronomy Tower that he’d wanted Malfoy to know his worth; to feel good. 

The first time it hits him is one afternoon when Malfoy comes to his classroom for an emergency meeting. They're to figure out what to do with two fifth years, a Slytherin and a Gryffindor, who had attacked each other in the middle of Harry's class. In the fallout, they'd destroyed two desks and half of Sir Belmist Barrachbore’s portrait. 

Harry leans back in his chair, stares at Malfoy as he sits down on the other side of the desk. He looks so different outside of the shadowy light of the dungeons. The large windows of the DADA classroom bathe him in warm sunlight, adding a shine to his eyes, a glow to his skin, and making visible a thin streak of grey near his temple. The bright airness of the room makes Malfoy look alive, makes him look good—fit, even—for the first time in a long time. 

It’s a welcome sight, and Harry smiles at him. “You look well.” 

Malfoy’s eyes go wide. He averts his gaze to the far corner, focusing on what’s left of the incinerated desks. “Yes, well, I would look much better if Hughes and Waldenick weren’t at each other’s throats.” 

Harry laughs. “Can you believe all the trouble these two are giving us?”

“I would imagine it’s some form of cosmic comeuppance for our own dreadful behavior.” 

“You’re probably right. Were we this bad?” 

Malfoy raises a brow, almost smiles. “Worse.”

As heads of the Gryffindor and Slytherin houses, they discuss possible solutions that might help the problem. Harry throws up the idea of ongoing detentions, but Malfoy shakes his head. 

“Perhaps we should bring back the Dueling Club,” he offers, the beginnings of a smirk curling over his features. 

Harry waves his hand dismissively. “And have them kill each other?” 

Malfoy’s smirk only deepens, and the skin around his eyes crinkles. “Have them work together.” 

“Now there’s an idea,” Harry says. 

They decide to have a co-captained Gryffindor-Slytherin team work together to gain points against a Ravenclaw-Hufflepuff team. At first, things only get worse between the problem students. But a few practises and successful team duels later, and the tension begins to abate. The participants seem to enjoy themselves, and a bridge forms toward something like inter-house unity. 

Harry considers it a major success. He takes a fifty-year aged firewhisky down to the dungeons one night and seeks Malfoy out to celebrate. Forty-five minutes later, Harry’s crying from laughter, his sides aching as Malfoy recounts horrific mishaps from his potions classes. 

“They’ve even outdone Longbottom and Finnigan,” Malfoy grins. Harry can’t remember a time he’s ever seen Malfoy smile so much. He revels in it as Malfoy explains his system for helping those more inclined to accidents. “By third year, they’re quite changed,” he explains. 

“There’s hope for me yet, then,” Harry laughs, and petitions Malfoy for in-depth instruction to help with his own potions skills. 

Malfoy grins, “Surely you know that as a teacher, often times the best way to help a student is to steer them toward their strengths.” 

“Potions could be one of my strengths,” Harry replies.

“Ever heard the phrase  _ ‘You can’t teach an old crup new tricks?’ _ ” 

When he finally drags himself to the door, a bit tipsier than he’d like, he turns to Malfoy and offers him a crooked grin. “You know, the Dueling Club idea was all you. You’re a fucking genius, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy’s cheeks, which had already taken on a slight pink tinge, turn an even deeper shade of red. “You implemented it. You organised the whole thing, did all the instruction. Really, Potter.” 

“No, no,” Harry shakes his head. “You read people so well. You know how to help them.” He leans in and adds, “You’re quite amazing.” 

An even more flushed Malfoy throws him out, muttering a reluctant, “Thanks for the firewhisky,” as he slams the door shut. 

Harry’s looking forward to the next school year, to working with Malfoy and the Dueling Club. But then McGonagall ropes him into an ambitious research project, likely to take up the entire year. He realises he’d need a Time Turner to balance teaching, Head of House duties, the research, and the Dueling Club. He’s glad he’s not seeing anyone, because knowing him, that would be the first thing to suffer. 

So, at the start of term, he strides into Malfoy’s office and drops the club’s attendance records and meeting notes on the big, mahogany desk. “Thanks again for doing this,” Harry says. “I really appreciate you.” 

Malfoy’s face flushes for a few moments before he smooths his features and replies, “It’s nothing at all.” 

As soon as Harry realises the effect of his words, the moment is gone. 

The term wears on him, and he finds himself eating too much treacle tart and not getting enough sun. He barely says two words together to anyone outside of lessons and lectures, and when the hols roll around, he’s eagerly anticipating letting loose and taking a much needed break from his research. 

He’s finally relaxing as a chaperone at the sixth and seventh year holiday dance, reveling in the festivities and sporting a lively bright orange Weasley jumper. He’s sipping pumpkin juice and tapping his foot to the melody when Malfoy saunters into the Great Hall. Harry almost chokes at the sight of him, dazzling in his dark green velvet trimmed robes. Harry realizes Malfoy never wears colors, that he always sticks to a rigid wardrobe of dreary blacks and greys, with the occasional white shirt if the style requires it. 

He shakes his head and approaches the punch table where Malfoy stands, tall and elegant, spooning himself a goblet of pumpkin juice. Harry leans in, “You look amazing in those robes.”

Malfoy freezes over the pumpkin juice bowl, ladle in hand, his face furrowing as if Harry’s words have caused him pain. But then he relaxes, and drops the ladle in the bowl. 

“Thank you, Potter.” 

Without thinking, Harry adds, “You should wear green more often.”

Malfoy takes a small sip from his goblet and Harry follows the motion, averting his eyes when he realises he’s been staring at Malfoy’s lips. Harry turns back to the dance floor and pretends to watch the students. 

“I try not to wear anything that could be divisive to house, class, or blood,” Malfoy finally says. Harry turns the admission over in his head, glancing back at Malfoy. 

“That’s incredibly noble of you,” Harry manages to say. His eyes trace the way the green robes hug Malfoy’s shoulders and chest. “You’re too good. Some of us might want to see you show off in something like this more often.” 

This time, Malfoy can’t hide the flush that overtakes him, and Harry can tell it spreads down past the high collar of his robes. Harry gulps at the erratic rise and fall of Malfoy’s chest. 

Malfoy whirls around, sets his goblet on a nearby table, and says, “Excuse me,” before rushing out of the Great Hall just as Neville walks up. 

“What was that about?” Neville asks, staring at Malfoy’s retreating form. 

Harry frowns. “I’m not sure.”

“He looked upset.”

Excusing himself, Harry goes after Malfoy, unable to stand the thought that he’d said something to upset him. He races down the corridors to the dungeons, managing to catch up to Malfoy just as he reaches the door to his office. 

“Wait,” Harry calls. 

Malfoy’s shoulders tense, and as Harry steps closer, he hears his ragged, uneven breaths. 

“Draco—”

“Don’t.” 

Harry takes a step forward. “Don’t what? I’m sorry I upset you.”

“Upset me?” Draco practically laughs. “You didn’t  _ upset _ me, Potter.” 

He turns around and Harry’s mouth drops. His cheeks are flushed, his pupils blown, his lips red and swollen from being bitten too hard. Harry’s gaze drops to Draco’s heaving chest, then further to where his robes have parted near his waist, where an erection strains against the fabric of his trousers. 

“I—” Harry can’t tear his eyes away from Draco’s crotch. “I’m sorry,” he finally manages. 

Draco winces. “I wish you knew what it did to me when you say such things—when you—” But he can’t bring himself to finish what he was saying. He can barely look Harry in the eyes. 

Harry licks his lips and grins. “Well, now I know.” He steps forward and Draco falters, but squares his jaw and meets Harry’s eyes. Harry wants to tell him how beautiful he looks, flushed and aroused just because of him. “I could say so much more,” Harry closes the gap between them, “If you’d let me.”

The sudden echo of voices carries down the corridor and Draco’s eyes snap in the direction of the noise. He sighs and turns around, muttering something to break the wards before grabbing Harry’s hand and pulling him into his office. 

They stand near the door and stare at each other for a heavy minute before Harry decides he’s had enough stares, enough daydreams. He pulls Draco into his arms and kisses him, and every weight that ever held them down falls away. It’s like flying, and Harry can’t soar high enough. Draco tastes like pumpkin juice, and comfort, and kissing him is like coming home. Harry leans into him, getting lost in the pull of his lips and the heat of his mouth. 

He cups Draco’s face, lets his fingers trail over smooth skin and weave their way into his fine hair. Harry pulls away, breathless, whispering, “That was good.”

Draco is staring at him, his grey eyes burning with want, and need, and something else—something tender. It makes Harry’s heart ache for more. He wants Draco to know how perfect he is, and he wants him to feel good, feel wanted. 

Harry kisses him again, his hands roaming, tracing the angles of his jaw and graceful curve of his neck before finding the laces of his robes. Every movement becomes deliberate, a discovery, a new part of Draco he can worship. As he unlaces the robes, pushing them off Draco’s shoulders, Harry finds every inch of pale neck and chest he can, touching and tasting and telling Draco how much he loves his perfect skin. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, trailing kissing across Draco’s collarbone. 

When his fingers find the waist of Draco’s trousers, a hand catches his and stops him. 

“Are you sure?” Draco asks, his voice burdened with hesitation and worry. 

Harry carts his eyes over Draco’s body. He needs him to know how much he wants him. “Merlin, yes.” 

Draco grabs his chin and makes him focus. “Harry.” 

“I’m not sure,” Harry starts to say, cupping Draco’s cheek in his hand, “that I’ve ever wanted anything or anyone the way that I want you right now.” 

He doesn’t remember how they get there, but they end up in Draco’s quarters, sprawled on the bed, kissing like teenagers. Everytime Harry breaks away to catch his breath, it’s like suffocating. He licks his lips and leans back, needing Draco’s breath against his own, needing the slide of his tongue over his lips. He welcomes the soft bite of teeth on his lower lip and the pleasured moans, each an unexpected gift to cherish. 

Draco’s hands wander, his long, agile fingers stroking the lines of Harry’s chest, curling in his hair, teasing their way down to his navel before clutching his hip and pulling him closer. 

“Fuck, I love it when you touch me,” Harry breathes. 

When Draco manages to get Harry out of his clothes, when they both lay there naked, they share tentative touches and softer kisses, until suddenly their cocks brush against each other. Harry gasps and breaks their kiss, and Draco stares down between them, smirking. 

He pushes Harry so he’s lying on his back, then plants himself between Harry’s legs. Draco traces soft touches over Harry’s hip bones before leaning forward and tentatively lapping his tongue down the underside of Harry’s cock.

“Fuck me,” Harry pants, an unexpected shiver coursing through him. He watches Draco swirl his tongue around the head of his cock before licking down the base and sucking one of Harry’s balls into his mouth. “Yeah, that’s it,” Harry groans. “You’re making me feel so good, Draco.” 

Then Draco shifts, leans over Harry, and takes the whole thing into his mouth down the hilt. Harry almost screams. “You’re so good,” he says over and over, unable to stop talking as Draco opens his throat and takes him deep. “Your mouth is amazing.” 

Harry cards his fingers through Draco’s hair, lets noises of pleasure and praise spill from his lips as Draco takes the encouragement and increases the pace. Harry watches as everything he says softens Draco’s features more and more, releases his inhibitions. When their eyes meet, Harry has to push him off to stop himself from going over the edge. His muscles are tense, and he knows he’s close, but he wants Draco to feel just as good as he does. 

He almost loses it again when he eyes Draco’s cock, hard and leaking precome, heavy between his legs. Draco starts to lean back over, but Harry stops him. “Wait.” 

He wraps a gentle hand around Draco’s neck and pulls him into a kiss. He can’t help the moan that escapes him as his tongue mixes with the warmth of Draco’s mouth and his own precome. Almost in a frenzy, he says, “Touch me,” and guides Draco’s hand to his cock. “Can you make it good for me, Draco?” 

“So good,” Draco leans back in, kissing and sucking his way down Harry’s throat. 

Draco starts moving his hand, gripping Harry with slow, deliberate strokes. Harry watches Draco’s arm flex, his fingers twist around his cock, and then traces his own hands over Draco’s tense muscles, his shoulders and chest, all the things he daydreamed about, all the things he loves. 

“I’ve thought about you so much,” Harry says. “Thought about your hands and how perfect they are.” Harry reaches between them and pulls Draco forward, positioning it so he can wrap his hand around both of their cocks at the same time. He whines and squeezes his eyes closed as he touches his own cock for the first time since they started, increasing the pace of his strokes. 

He opens his eyes and pierces Harry with a determined stare, the heat of his desire the catalyst for Harry’s orgasm. When it hits him, he pulls Draco in for a rough kiss, unable to form any coherent thoughts, let alone speak words aloud. His come coats his stomach, adding some slick to help Draco’s movements. He still has to get his release, and Harry wants it to be good for him.

When Harry comes down from his orgasm, he breaks the kiss, gently pushing Draco up so he can straddle Harry’s legs. He watches Draco’s face tense, twist into something beautiful and new. 

Harry can’t tear his eyes away from the heat of Draco’s stare. He wants to see everything, every part of him as he comes undone. He thinks,  _ Next time _ , and grabs Draco’s free hand, clutching it to his chest. “You’ve been so good, Draco. You can let go now.” Draco bites his lip and Harry adds, “You deserve it.” 

Draco’s lids close, his mouth falls open in a silent cry, and he quakes in a tense shudder before he comes. Harry thinks he’s never seen anything more exquisite. Grabbing Draco’s face, he presses their lips together again, certain that he's never going to get enough of Draco's lips.

When they lie in the afterglow, having caught their breath, the clean up spells cast, Harry thinks he was an idiot not to notice how much of an effect he had on Draco. But in the weeks that follow, Harry realizes—between the long, lazy kisses and the casual readings by the fire, between the heated games of wizard’s chess and the sweet exchanges of gifts and smiles, between the deep, honest discoveries of what it means to truly make love and the hard and fast fucking that leaves him sore and breathless—he was an even bigger idiot for not seeing what effect Draco had on him. 

“Merlin,” Harry scowls as they rush in from the brutal wind after a long New Year’s Eve stroll around the grounds. Draco walks in behind him and rolls his eyes. “I know, I know,” Harry shakes his head. “I don’t know why I didn’t cast a Warming Charm.” 

“It’s alright,” Draco says. “I have a roaring fire waiting for us back at mine. Fancy a drink before the party?” 

Harry smiles, “Brilliant.” He wraps his arm around Draco’s waist as they head down the corridor to the dungeons. Half his body is frozen, but he’s never been happier.

When they settle in on the sofa, the fire blazing before them, Draco hands Harry a tumbler of firewhisky and nestles in by his side. 

Harry leans into him. “You’re so perfect,” he says, and plays with the hair at the nape of Draco’s neck. 

For a moment, Draco tenses, but relaxes into Harry’s touch. “You know that I’m not.” 

“You’re right,” Harry nods. “No one is perfect. But I think you might be perfect for me.” 

Draco snorts. “You think that’s going to work on me?” 

“I was hoping…” Harry sips his drink and raises a brow. 

“Hmm,” Draco looks away and licks his lips. When he turns back, he sinks to the floor and maneuvers his way in between Harry’s legs. “Let’s see if we can’t find another way to warm you up. Shall we?” 

Harry smiles. “You really do have the best ideas.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are cherished forever. 
> 
> [Find me on tumblr](http://buttertyrant.tumblr.com)


End file.
